


and she shines like the sun

by crestofthebeholding



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, POV Second Person, Purple Prose, Worship, i'm not even gonna pretend this isn't the writing equivalent of throwing paint at a wall, no second draft we die like mne, this fic has a target audience of four (4) people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27544753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crestofthebeholding/pseuds/crestofthebeholding
Summary: It is inevitable: you will fall, or crash and burn, and find yourself at the feet of your world incarnate.or, moth circles sun and moth circles flame.
Relationships: Grimm/The Radiance (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	and she shines like the sun

And she is the sun, radiant and resplendent, hanging over you eternally. Taller, ever taller, broader of shoulder and brighter of both smile and rage. You have seen both, closer to yourself than your own heart: the warmth she casts upon leaf and frond and shell, and the screech of the downtrodden that shatters minds like candy and glass. 

And you, in your heart, are a moth; you are compelled to chase her light. Coy and theatric by turn, circling her like a planet or a creature on smoldering wings. It is inevitable: you will fall, or crash and burn, and find yourself at the feet of your world incarnate. It is everything when her fingers brush your face, when her touch draws you up, up, up into the heart of sunlight.

And she accepts you, burnt-out little thing that you are, with a single smooth movement of her hand. She traces the crest of your head, the protrusion of your neck and the snake-smooth bend of your spine. You cannot tell whether the touch is acceptance or absolution, but regardless, it shatters you in an instant. Your trembling legs fail you, and it is only her vice-grip on your arm that keeps you upright. She pulls you up, closer, yet closer, until there is nowhere to look into the face of absolute divinity.

And her arms and wings and light around you  _ burn _ , burn more than the self-destruction and the Ritual, burn more than the aching caverns of your chest. You beg for her, sweet and uncharacteristic and supplicant, and her breath smells of honey where it grazes your cheek. Queen of the world that is no longer yours, she could simply envelop you and suffocate you, drown you in light and warmth until your mind dissipates like ripples on water. She spares you, and you do not know if that is a blessing or a curse.

And you, being of flame and fear, tremble and burn as she touches you. Her touch is gentle, as if she does not want to break you. Regardless, it  _ aches _ , running from toe to tongue in a sudden, desperate arrow-arch. You don't know what words run off your mouth, only that she draws her eyes closed in approval, in benediction. For a moment, everything is warmth, is perfection that deserves any recompense she requests.

And you respond with claw and tooth and tongue, as if this were a fight, as if you had a chance of victory. Her skin is the softness of bountiful harvest and safe homecomings, scarred over in smooth patterns of wars endured and borders defended. Your teeth dig into her neck as if you can drink the light from her veins, as if you could gorge yourself on her and become just as divine. She sings your name and you tremble, wishing you had the power to outshine her, even for a moment; you only want long enough to mark her in return. Every inch of you is hers, and she remains her own. It is so beautifully, grievously unfair that it must be an accident. Her wings outspan yours; she remains just out of reach. 

And you whimper prayers into the soft fur-trap of her neck, and her embrace is warm as the pyre.


End file.
